[closed post -- john 20:25]

[onthewillowsthere]

For the last few weeks, Galahad and Laertes have met regularly for baking. Most of the time Laertes only helps a little, which is no trouble to Galahad -- he works just as well on his own. Sometimes Laertes brings a book and reads in silence; sometimes he talks, about his and Sagramore's new puppy and how perfect she is, the most clever and beautiful creature in all the world, or about what he's learning, about alchemy (Galahad likes the differences in the way Claudius and Laertes talk about alchemy and what it's like to make distillations and tinctures) or about the cosmos and its order.

Galahad thinks idly how much he'd like to bring the record player into the kitchen for them, for the times they don't talk. After spending so much of his life without music, every new song is like a new taste, and he can lose hours to them, watching the spin of the records or sketching and listening.

He and Claudius have made a list together. When his mind isn't otherwise occupied he thinks of it, straying back to it like a snatch of song that keeps repeating -- of all the things he doesn't dare but wants to, the ways he could touch Claudius and be touched: all the fruit-sweet temptations that he's still too afraid to take from his beloved serpent, subtle and beguiling.

The list is both a comfort and a source of anxiety. In many ways he's glad of it; he likes knowing what Claudius likes. He likes having some frame for his imagination, he likes the orderly arrangement of things, he likes having time to roll all the possibilities around inside his mind like grains of sand turning to pearls. It's simpler to know what is and isn't permitted between them, or would be permitted if he could-- and there's the anxiety.

He's taking too long, he keeps thinking. Claudius loves sex; it's how he gets to know people. It's a language for him. And Galahad is mute, withholding still. All the things they could be learning in each other are closed to him, because he doesn't know to unlock the door of himself and let Claudius put his hand to the latch, dripping with myrrh or no.

He should trust Claudius -- he knows that. Claudius has accepted his ring, accepted his betrothal. And yet: Galahad is so inexperienced. He knows so much less of the world, so much less about people, so much less about everything but God (and he can't imagine Claudius is really enchanted by the idea of hearing Galahad speak on the heresy of adoptionism and the theologies of Peter Abélard). Sometimes in the mornings when he's caught between Matins and Prime and can't get out of bed, he thinks about how much better suited Laertes and Sagramore, with their warmth and brightness and spontaneity, are to keeping Claudius from loneliness and melancholy. Grantaire is so sweet and sad; Claudius says so all the time. Claudius has been open about his love for all three of them, and often Galahad can reason that of all the men Claudius loves it's Galahad he's chosen to live with. But sometimes it's hard; sometimes he feels too quiet, too inexpressive, too chaste. He's taking too long. He's too slow.

Usually he's attentive when he's baking with Laertes. He listens well -- he's good at listening. Today he can't stop thinking about the list and his slowness.

Galahad is folding browned butter into the madeleine batter when he realizes Laertes has asked him a question that he's missed entirely. He puts the saucepan down.

"What did you say?"

Comments

[onthewillowsthere]

He considers. No sign. B-i-r-d bird combine dog?

[timebethine]

He considers, then signs dog near the mouth, as with bird. Different enough?

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad tilts his head slightly, then signs w-i-n-g wing combine? and does the two-handed flap transitioning into a single flat palm of wing plus the finger-snaps for dog. It's a long sign but all the parts flow nicely into each other.

(It won't bother him if Laertes doesn't like it; he's thinking aloud, as it were.)

[timebethine]

Laertes watches, thinking--it seems like a lot for every time he wants to talk about his daughter, which is constantly. He fists his hands into the letter S, then tries the two-handed flap like that. The stubbiness of the gesture pleases him; it makes him think of Szarka's stumpy little puppy legs.

[onthewillowsthere]

He flashes a smile and copies it. You like?

[timebethine]

Yes! Szarka! Dog daughter good perfect love Szarka! A huge grin.

[onthewillowsthere]

That wins his second outright laugh of the day. Bring Szarka tomorrow.

[timebethine]

Give food; Szarka loves you, Laertes advises. It might be said that Szarka loves just about everyone; however, it might also be said that Laertes and Sagramore have made sure of that by providing the entire mansion with liver jerky to bribe her with. Szarka meets Drosera? Soon?

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad rolls his eyes almost exactly the way Claudius does it. Drosera bites now. Okay?

[timebethine]

A frown. How teach Drosera no bites?

[onthewillowsthere]

M-o-t-h-w-i-n-g say kittens bite. We make noise cry not play. She not like not play.

[timebethine]

The grammar is tripping him up a little; he asks, "Thou wilt make an unhappy sound when she bites, so that she knows it's not how she should play?"

[onthewillowsthere]

"Yes. And we stop playing with her. Mothwing says that's how cats teach kittens."

[timebethine]

"Ay, that's what Sagramore does for Szarka, too. He never shouts or strikes her; he only ignores her until she behaves as he wishes." It's one of the things he admires in Sagramore, how gentle and clear he is in training Szarka. Sagramore's name-sign is S-poetry, the fist of the initial only making the presentational gesture more explosive.

[onthewillowsthere]

"He doesn't scold her?" He signs along with his spoken words, partly out of habit and partly because he's helping Laertes with the vocabulary.

[timebethine]

"Only in play--'thou little hellion, hast eaten my boots again.' Only teasing."

[onthewillowsthere]

That flash of smile again. "Drosera doesn't eat boots yet. Don't say anything around her."

[timebethine]

"Afraid I'll give her ideas?"

[onthewillowsthere]

"She already eats buttons and laces."

[timebethine]

"I'd noticed," Laertes laughs. "I came home from thy party all unbraced. Wilt thou deter her?"

[onthewillowsthere]

"Sometimes we forget," he admits. With his and Magnus' outsized strength and Magnus' healing factor they're both prone to letting Dro get away with playing rough and engaging in mischief. "We're not as good mothers as Sagramore."

[timebethine]

"He'd love to hear himself called a mother," Laertes says with a smile. "But I will say, thy task seems harder than ours. Drosera will by far outstrip Szarka, when she's grown, and every part of her is sharp."

[onthewillowsthere]

"At least Magnus can talk to her."

[timebethine]

"Has she much to say?"

[onthewillowsthere]

"Mostly still hungry and baby and mama, but if Magnus says a new word she repeats it."